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The Use of Bassoon in Russian Orchestral Music
Cynthia Lynn Susan Stacy
Spring 2016
Thesis submitted in partial completion of Senior Honors Capstone requirements for the DePaul University Honors Program
Dr. Kurt Westerberg, School of Music
Mr. William Buchman, School of Music
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Cynthia Stacy
The Use of Bassoon in Russian Orchestral Music
Honors Thesis
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This thesis, presented in partial completion of the Honors Capstone, is dedicated to Kurt Westerberg, Bill Buchman, and Sarah Wells Kaufman, who ceaselessly encourage my curiosity.
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Table of Contents Abstract 7
Introduction 8
Part 1: A Study on Russian Orchestral Music 12
Mikhail Glinka
Mily Balakirev
The Mighty Handful (and Tchaikovsky)
The National Style
Russian Folk Music Within Orchestral Works
Orchestration and the Prevalence of the Bassoon within the Russian Canon
Part 2: Armenian Influence in Russian Music 28
The Armenian Duduk
“Dudki” in Russian Orchestral Scores
Evoking the Duduk through the Bassoon
Armenia in the 18th and 19th Centuries
Conclusion 35
Works Cited 36
Works Consulted 40
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Abstract
As a bassoonist, it is my observation that the instrument is employed frequently
within Russian works. This is most notable in works written in the nineteenth and twentieth
centuries. Through musical and historical analysis, I tackle this subject from a musicological
perspective.
My conclusion is that the bassoon is so heavily relied upon by these composers
because of its timbre. Folk music permeates the Russian canon, and its rustic, modal qualities
posed a challenge to composers: emulate these qualities by means of harmony and orchestral
texture.
Ultimately, the bassoon (sometimes accompanied by other winds) came to evoke the
sound of the Armenian duduk. Multiple composers within my focus explicitly connect the
two, as indicated by their use of the term “dudki” in relation to bassoon-laden passages . Upon
researching the term, the etymology and cultural significance of the dudkuk is invaluable to
understanding the prevalence of bassoon within this music.
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Introduction
Through historical and musical analysis, my thesis investigates not only the use of
bassoon in Russian orchestral music, but why the bassoon is so prevalent. I surmise that the
extensive use of the instrument has influences rooted in Russian folk song and its traditional
instruments. While Russian music has been researched and analyzed, the role the bassoon
plays within the Russian canon has not been dissected. I will focus on Russian culture and
musical history, as well as the lives of prolific Russian composers. By focusing on their lives
and compositional techniques, I will discover how folk music became integrated within their
works and why instrumentation became important to the Russian style of orchestral music.
As a bassoonist myself, I have had the opportunity to perform an array of orchestral
pieces, Russian and otherwise. I have experienced my point firsthand: the bassoon is
employed significantly in Russian orchestral music, arguably more than in the music of other
European countries. Of course, this is a generalization of a trend; there are a handful of
non-Russian composers that utilize the bassoon in excess. My theory, however, is that
Russian composers make a systematic and habitual use of employing the bassoon in
significant, meaningful ways. More specifically, I believe that Russian composers have
developed this custom out of a rich tradition of folk music.
Russian folk music includes vocal and instrumental pieces. Instrumental folk music
can be traced back to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, though instruments were
banned under the reign of Tsar Alexis I, influenced by the Orthodox Church. This occurred
during the latter half of the seventeenth century, but the ban was lifted and a revival of
instrumental folk music soon followed.
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The use of folk music within an orchestral setting can be attributed to Mikhail Glinka,
who employed folk songs throughout his compositional output. Most notably Glinka’s first
opera, A Life for the Tsar, is largely based on traditional Russian folk song and subject
matter. This set the precedent for later Russian composers; including folksong within an
orchestral setting began a tradition that would become a nationalistic style. This stylistic
idiom would be continued throughout the nineteenth century and extended into the
twentieth century with composers such as Stravinsky.
Mily Alekseyvich Balakirev, Glinka’s immediate predecessor, was also pivotal in
expressing nationalism through music (Garden). To learn more about the folk genre as well
as record it, Balakirev spent part of his musical career collecting and harmonizing traditional
Russian folk songs. His influence on subsequent Russian composers is clear. These
harmonizations would inspire and allow Balakirev’s Russian colleagues to include traditional
folk song in their own works. Composers of interest include Tchaikovsky, Rimsky-Korsakov,
Mussorgsky, and Stravinsky. All of these composers were influenced in varying degrees by
Balakirev and, by extension, Glinka.
It is essential to take note of the careful orchestral setting of such folk melodies. The
bassoon is either utilized soloistically, which is not at all uncommon within the Russian
canon, or within a woodwind choir. Interestingly, when the bassoon participates in folk
melodies, verbatim or varied, some of these composers notate dudki in their scores. An
example of this is the opening bassoon solo to Le Sacre du Printemps by Igor Stravinsky- one
of the most iconic bassoon solos within the repertory.
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But what might the importance of dudki be to Russian orchestral music? I have
concluded that this term is invaluable in comprehending the prominence and use of the
bassoon within the Russian canon.
This term- dudki- is rooted in Armenian tradition. Ancient dudki exist in three
possible sizes, the longest of which is considered a bass-duduk. Each size of the instrument
produces a mid-to-low range sound that is simultaneously nasal and plaintive. The
appearance of this term within orchestral scores indicates that musical passages were written
with the timbre of the duduk in mind. This term appears in multiple sketches and scores, and,
based on the nature of said appearances, I surmise that the timbre of the bassoon was most
like that of the duduk. I argue that a timbral relationship exists between the duduk and
bassoon and that the duduk’s timbre became increasingly important in Russian folk music. It
would ultimately be simulated in orchestral music by the bassoon.
Throughout its evolution, the bassoon has been described as a sweet, plaintive
sounding instrument. Rimsky-Korsakov asserts the same opinion in his text Principles of
Orchestration. It is my argument that this sound is reminiscent of the traditional duduk, and
has become indoctrinated into Russian orchestral soundscape.To further illustrate my point
that Russian composers relied heavily on bassoon to provide this timbre, I have examined the
twenty most requested excerpts for professional auditions. Eight of the the requested
bassoon excerpts, forty percent, are Russian (Lyman).
My research spans ancient instruments circa 12BCE to Russian compositions through
1913. I will begin by analyzing stylistic elements of Russian orchestral works and will then
establish my theory as to how the Armenian duduk found its way into Russia. By clarifying
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these connections, I will be able to exemplify the importance of “dudki” in various Russian
manuscripts, especially in regards to orchestration. Glinka, Stravinsky, Mussorgsky, and
Rimsky-Korsakov all employ the bassoon in passages in which they hope to evoke the sound
of the duduk; I argue that the extensive use of bassoon within the Russian canon is heavily
influenced by this ancient instrument and traditional Russian folk music.
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Part 1: A Study of Russian Orchestral Music
Mikhail Glinka: the Father of Russian Music
Mikhail Glinka would posthumously be titled “the father of Russian music,”
(Frolova-Walker) so it is only fitting to begin an exploration of Russian music with his
works. Born in 1804, young Mikhail Glinka grew up in a Russia dominated by Western and
Central European orchestral works. Bach and Handel are quoted as being some of Glinka’s
favorite composers, while he was also heavily influenced by Berlioz’ programmatic works
(Bennett). Glinka was the first Russian composer to gain notoriety both in his own nation
and abroad. For this reason, he earned the aforementioned title.
Glinka’s upbringing as a composer was important to the beginning of the Russian
tradition of orchestral music. He studied music theory with a German, Siegfried Dehn, who
was an expert on traditional church modes (Frolova-Walker). These modes would be the
basis for Glinka’s folk music harmonizations extremely present in his early works. There are
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numerous folk-influences within much of his music, but perhaps most notably in A Life for
the Tsar (1836), Ruslan and Lyudmila (1842), and Kamarinskaya (1848) (Campbell).
Joseph Bennett, writing for The Musical Times, describes Glinka as the, “most
national of composers; the founder of a Russian school, and the initiator of an artistic
development which may, and probably will, exercise an immense influence upon music in
general” (Bennett). I agree with Bennett’s praise; it is apparent that Glinka made apt use of
folk music which initiated and encouraged later Russian composers. Glinka’s inspired use of
folk song within orchestral works also created the basis for Russian nationalism through
music.
As he gained experience and notoriety as a composer, Mikhail Glinka traveled
throughout Europe and was witness to many different cultures and musical genres. These
exotic genres would appear in Glinka’s later works, such as the Spanish Overture. “In Spain,
the originality of the national melodies will help me much as regards the Fantaisies I have in
mind,” (Bennett). In France, Glinka came to be friends with Berlioz and worked with him
intimately. Within the same letter, Mikhail Glinka reflects on Berlioz’ style, saying,
“his combinations have, among other merits, that of being entirely new.
Broad ensemble, ample details, close harmonic tissue, instrumentation powerful and
till now unheard-such are the characteristics of the music of Berlioz”
(Bennett).
Although influenced by Berlioz, harmonic prowess orchestral finesse had already been
present within Glinka’s works. In fact, Hector Berlioz had written “ [h]e is a great harmonist
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and writes for instruments with a care and knowledge of their subtlest resources which
makes his orchestra one of the newest and most piquant that one can hear” (Bennett).
Glinka’s aptitude and passion for folk music was integral to his orchestral output.
Although his travels left him with ample non-Russian folk music on which to draw, he
returned to Russian subject matter with his Karaminskaya in 1848. It is important, however,
to note the shades of “Italian, Spanish, and Oriental influence” (Istel 394) present throughout
his post-tour works. The colors produced by such influences would certainly add to Glinka’s
“progressiveness” as a composter (Frolova-Walker).
The Russian phrase for folk music is Народная песня- literally “people’s music” (A
Nercessian 86), which Glinka took to heart. He is quoted as saying “[t]he common people
compose; we only arrange” (Istel 393). In his memoirs, Glinka recalled Russian peasant choirs
singing under his window (Glinka), and although he gives these accounts, the folk-music that
shaped Glinka’s young life was not all vocal. In fact, there is evidence that Glinka was brought
up around folk-song specifically arranged for woodwind instruments.
In his book, Russian Music and its Sources in Chant and Folk-Song, Alfred Swan
relays Glinka’s experience at home with his maternal uncle’s folk-orchestra: “During supper
they usually played Russian folk-songs arranged for two flutes, two clarinets, two horns, and
two bassoons, and it was possibly from these songs that I acquired my love for our native
Russian music” (p. 62). Bennett’s article briefly discusses the same influence, stating “ the
brother of Madame Glinka was not only able, but disposed, to keep a band of musicians
attached to his household.” Such intimate experience with woodwind instruments and
folk-song likely paved the way for Glinka’s expert orchestration.
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Mily Balakirev: a Continuation of Russian Nationalism
“Of all the musicians of his generation, only Balakirev knew Glinka” (Taruskin ‘83);
Glinka died in Berlin in 1857, only two years after meeting Balakirev. While brief, it is evident
that the relationship between Mikhail Glinka and Mily Balakirev was in fact impactful. One
of Balakirev’s earlier works, Themes of Three Russian Folk Songs (also called Overture on
Russian Themes), was composed just after Glinka’s death. “[T]he Overture was no doubt a
deliberate tribute to the memory of the great man [Glinka]” (Taruskin ‘83).
Folk music captivated Balakirev and became his primary subject matter. “The first
collection of songs with music which gave an exact notation of melody and a more suitable
harmonization was the work of the composer M. A. Balakirev (1866)” (Verdansky). Mily
Alekseyvich Balakirev collected a number of folk-songs on the Volga river in during this time
(Garden 293). After collecting these melodies, Balakirev harmonized them for use in
art-music. These harmonizations were published, making them available to composers
throughout Europe during this time. In fact, Balakirev’s publication inspired
Rimsky-Korsakov to harmonize his own collection over ten years later (Verdansky).
Balakirev’s harmonizations, use of folk song, and orchestration were directly
influenced by Glinka’s compositions. Balakirev would then inspire the compositions of
Rimsky-Korsakov, Mussorgsky, Borodin, and Cui- “the Mighty Handful.” Like Glinka,
Balakirev sought to celebrate nationality by indoctrinating traditional folksong into
orchestral works. This encouraged the sense of nationalism that permeates Russian
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orchestral works. Balakirev’s work had been so important to Russian nationalism that he
became a member of the Folk-song Commission of the Imperial Russian Geographical
Society in 1897 (Garden 293).
The Mighty Handful (and Tchaikovsky)
Balakirev is essential to a long lineage of Russian composers. Between the years 1856
and 1862, Balakirev met Mussorgsky, Cui, Rimsky-Korsakov, and finally Borodin. These
would be all become prolific Russian composers known colloquially as the “Mighty
Handful,” or “The Mighty Five.” “Balakirev longed for action and to influence others”
(Zetlin); he’d get his wish. He would become, undeniably, the leader of the these composers.
His collection of folk songs and harmonizations would be used by The Five in art-songs,
symphonies, and ballets well past his death in 1910.
The correspondence between Balakirev and Rimsky-Korsakov began in 1862, when
Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov was but seventeen years old (incidentally, this was also the year the
St. Petersburg Conservatorie was founded by Anton Rubinstein). Rimsky-Korsakov was
overseas as a naval cadet during the duration of their correspondence (Montagu-Nathan). As
corroborated by his memoirs, Rimsky-Korsakov’s initial letter to Balakirev tells of his
budding first symphony. Rimsky-Korsakov, expressing desire to send a manuscript to
Balakirev for review (Rimsky-Korsakov ‘42), had hoped Balakirev would be receptive to the
initial letter. Balakirev replied to young Rimsky-Korsakov on November 7, 1862, which began
Rimsky-Korsakov’s lessons immediately. Rimsky-Korsakov recalls his response:
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“My first attempt to orchestrate this movement [Movement 1 of Symphony no
1 in Eb] embarrassed me, and Balakirev orchestrated for me the first page of the
introduction, whereupon the work went better” (Rimsky-Korsakov ‘42).
It is evident from his tone that Rimsky-Korsakov, seventeen years old at the time,
admired Balakirev and sought him out as a mentor. Rimsky-Korsakov would later say that,
“his [Balakirev’s] [knowledge] surpassed all bounds of possibility, and every word and opinion
of his were absolute truth to me” (Rimsky-Korsakov ‘42). Balakirev indeed became
Rimsky-Korsakov’s mentor, a position he greatly accepted after the loss of one of his most
promising pupils, Gusakovsky. The letters ended in October 1864, upon Rimsky-Korsakov’s
return to Russia (that none other than Balakirev expedited, worried about Rimsky-Korsakov’s
mental health (Montagu-Nathan)). Upon his arrival, Rimsky-Korsakov’s lessons were with
“the master” himself.
The importance of Balakirev’s influence on Pytor Illich Tchaikovsky, who is not
considered one of the Five, is not to be disregarded. In fact, “[i]t is difficult to imagine how
Tchaikovsky might have developed as a composer had Balakirev not taken him in hand in
1869” (Garden ‘80). In the fall of 1867, Balakirev had been appointed the conductor of the
Russian Musical Society and would also conduct a series of concerts at the Free School of
Music, which he directed. 1867 was also the beginning of Tchaikovsky’s compositional
career; he composed his first opera, The Voyevoda, in this year. As Balakirev was quickly
becoming a powerful figure to Russian orchestral music, Tchaikovsky was implored to accept
Balakirev’s guidance and criticism, although he remained confident in his own abilities.
Despite Balakirev’s attempts to mentor Tchaikovsky, the latter continued his “academic”
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education and was still the composer of works with “expressive melodies, brilliant
orchestration and piquant harmony” (Taruskin ‘09). The relationship between the two
composers is nothing short of complex. Perhaps we cannot firmly grasp the extent of its
complexity, as Balakirev “always preferred to deliver his opinions verbally, so that the
criticism could be really detailed” (Brown). This complexity is rooted in their respective
methodologies. Tchaikovsky, the academic from St. Petersberg, was pressured to believe
Bakakirev as an uneducated poseur. “The hidden relationship… to Balakirev, a thoroughly
disreputable figure in the eyes of the conservatory, would definitely have been a prudent
thing to conceal…”(Taruskin ‘09). However, “[t]here is much evidence to suggest that
Tchaikovsky felt both a great need for and, simultaneously, a resentment of guidance. It so
happened that Balakirev was the almost ideal man to administer this to Tchaikovsky”
(Brown). There was an internal struggle within Tchaikovsky to remain true to both his
Germanic, academic education and folk-music influences.
We know of Borodin’s personality and relationship towards Balakirev because of his
letters to the latter (Seaman). Originally published by V V Stasov in 1889, the letters are filled
with Borodin’s personal experience with other members of the Five and serve as “a vivid
account of the composer’s life and work over a period of thirty years” (Seaman). In his letter
dated September 21 of 1871, Borodin concerns himself with the success of his colleagues.
Translated by Seaman, this letter discusses “adherence to the ideals of Russian nationalist
school, the adoption of national subject matter, and a conscious imitation of the musical
innovations of Glinka.”
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Balakirev led these composers without a formal conservatory. While Tchaikovsky had
access to music textbooks in languages other than Russian at the Saint Petersburg
Conservatorie (Garden), “no textbooks on the theory of music in the Russian language meant
that Balakirev and his proteges had had no formal musical education” (Garden). The lack of
formal education, however, enabled the Mighty Handful much more harmonic freedom.
Liberation from Western concepts of tonality and dissonance “allowed the Five, who were
not academically trained, to create breathtaking orchestrations” (Taruskin ‘97) and employ
folk music with exotic harmonizations. These exotic harmonizations were the Russians’
response to the “disgusting” German canon as Balakirev candidly described in his 1863 letter
to Rimsky-Korsakov (Montagu-Nathan). Tchaikovsky’s formal education, which equipped
him with such Germanic ideals, was an important factor in why he was not considered one of
the Five.
The National Style
Mikhail Glinka’s 1848 work Kamarinskaya was especially important to the Five in that
its basis in folk melody served as a model for a “changing-background” strategy
(Frovola-Walker). Glinka did not to develop folk melodies, but reset them harmonically
within the same piece. This way, he achieved different musical context without sacrificing
the integrity of the original melody. The lack of melodic development juxtaposed with
preponderance of harmonic development became something unique, but important, to
Russian orchestral music. “Mussorgsky would begin doing the same thing; this became his
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model for “Kromy Forest” scene in Boris Godunov” (Campbell). This “changing background”
strategy was treasured as a national style.
An ever-present minor mode seems to fall upon Russian music. Described by Edward
Garden in 1980, a “sharp-five over tonic,” tonality is prominent within Russian folk song.
This interval is usually classified as a lowered sixth or minor sixth and is ultimately what
tinges most Russian orchestral music with somber overtones. It is first seen in the “Bridal
Chorus” within Glinka’s A Life for the Tsar (Garden ‘80). “Since the subtonic of the minor
(e.g. E♮ in F minor) is also the dominant of the relative major, harmonic settings of such
melodies move easily between the minor and relative major, a detail that gives a characteristic
coloration to much Russian music ‘in folk style’, whether Musorgsky's or anyone else's”
(Oldani). Another interval present throughout much of the Russian canon is the falling
fourth (Garden ‘80), which comes from vocal inflections built into the Russian
language.These intervallic relationships and harmonic behaviors are likely born out of the
modality intrinsic to the Russian folksongs and their subsequent harmonizations.
Aside from its harmonic idioms, Russian orchestral music often encompasses
non-Western rhythmic phenomena. In an effort to accurately emulate the rhythmic qualities
of folk song, these Russian composers did not always adhere to musical meters commonly
established in Western European works. This is another direct consequence of traditional
folk song. “Its rhythm is partly determined by the nature of the living tongue” (Verdansky).
Russian lyrics have different syllabic patterns, and as a result composers commonly employed
asymmetrical meter: 5/4, 7/4, etc, to preserve the integrity of the appropriated lyrical content.
“The use of changing time signatures is another vital feature of Balakirev’s set which has not
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been lost on Tchaikovsky, even if this particular characteristic influenced far more
profoundly Mussorgsky and Borodin” (Garden ‘80). This is obvious in Mussorgsky’s Pictures
at an Exhibition during the “Promenade” movement, which fluctuates between 5/4 and 6/4.
Tchaikovsky’s Symphony no. 6 begins in 5/4 as well, and Stravinsky’s oscillation between 4/4
and 3/4 or 2/4 in Le Sacre du Printemps create the same kind of asymmetrical pulse.
While the preponderance of asymmetrical meter and descending harmony causes an
overall turbulent musical atmosphere, listeners must not forget that Russian orchestral music
indeed has moments of brilliance and exoticism. Examples of this include the triumphant
major tonalities during Mussorgsky’s “Great Gates of Kiev” within Pictures at an Exhibition
and the romantic flourishes within Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade. Such colors were first
established by Glinka, who “sought out fresh harmonies and enriched his textures with
contrapuntal interest” (Frovola-Walker). It was Glinka that employed other daring musical
tools, such as the whole tone scale, which contributed to the ‘progressive’ character of later
Russian nationalist music (Frovola-Walker). Later, Rimsky-Korsakov would use said scale to
represent the Sultan in Scheherazade. Glinka’s progressiveness became the Russian standard;
it was continued by Balakirev, and would later be employed by Igor Stravinsky after studying
with Rimsky-Korsakov, perhaps Balakirev’s most famous disciple. “Almost all Russian
composers of the later 19th century – both the Tchaikovsky and Balakirev camps – regarded
Glinka as their forerunner” (Campbell).
Russian Folk Music within Orchestral Works
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It is true that such prolific use of folk music within an orchestral work is a trait of
Russian orchestral works. There are many Western and Central European countries that
employ folk music elements as part of their orchestral canons- Germany, Austria, and France
come to mind- but the Russian canon is different in its extent and explicitness. While folk
music sometimes exists within Western European art music as a melodic inspiration, much
of (perhaps the majority of) Russian art music is explicitly rooted in Russian subject matter
and quotes folk songs verbatim. This is traceable back to Glinka with his operatic works. His
opera A Life for the Tsar is based on seventeenth century Russian history. Mussorgsky’s
operas The Fair at Sorochintsy and Boris Gudonov are also rooted in Russian subject matter:
Fair at Sorochintsy is based off of a story by Nikolai Gogol and Boris Gudonov is based on
the work by Pushkin regarding the real-life Tsar of the same name. Folk songs are quoted
throughout these operas, and continue to appear in other Russian works. In Scheherazade,
“Rimsky-Korsakov appropriated a folk song from Balakirev’s recent anthology” (Taruskin ‘09)
for the opening of the third movement. This folk song would appear in a strikingly similar
way in Tchaikovsky’s Manfred symphony (Garden ‘80). Another example of Russian folk
song quoted by Tchaikovsky is in the finale of Symphony no 4. Tchaikovsky includes “The
Birch Tree,” a beloved folk song as the closing theme of the work. Taruskin explains that this
very song was “used by opera composers as early as the 18th century, and by Balakirev”
(Taruskin ‘09).
I argue that the composers in question used folk music without such stylistic
repercussions in mind. Because most of these composers had no formal training, their
musical education was rooted, perhaps entirely, in folk music. The non-Western idioms and
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tonalities that permeate Russian music were not used, originally, in outward defiance of
Western harmony; these were simply the sounds that Russian composers had experienced
their entire lives. I assert that a sense of nationalism was felt after Russians and non-Russians
alike were able to hear the obvious stylistic differences between Russian and Western
European canons. The notion that the orchestral output from Western European countries
was “disgusting” (Seaman) was a repercussion of the Russians’ newfound harmonic
preferences, though it did motivate the continued use of folk music within orchestral works.
Russians are proud of their music, and rightfully so. Had it not been for the appearance of
folk music within their orchestral works, I doubt the Western world would have any inkling
to its existence or importance.
The appropriated folk songs “fall into four main categories: wedding songs…, peasant
dances…, laments…, and peasants’ or boatmen’s songs” (Garden ‘68). These four main
categories of folk song warrant different musical settings and generally require specific
musical elements. These musical elements became idiomatic to the Russian canon. It is no
coincidence, then, that certain musical idioms became deeply associated with the musical
settings in which they occur. For instance, wedding songs often employ a “call-and-response”
structure (Slobin) which would require multiple instruments or singers. Peasant dances
require more rhythmic instruments than laments. These dances would likely call upon drums
and louder wind instruments to provide rhythmic motivation. The overt and persistent
rhythmic qualities of Stravinsky’s “Danse Sacarale” from Le Sacre du Printemps are a
modernized example of this folk idiom. The type of folksong at any point within a work
dictated the idioms called upon by the composer. Instrumental timber played a major role in
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orchestral composers’ choice of orchestration, as well. As different folk songs required
different soundscapes, composers learned to employ specific instruments to accurately
emulate the folk song in its native setting.
Orchestration and the Prevalence of Bassoon within the
Russian Canon
I argue that the orchestral texture tendencies born out of Russian folk music extend
through the entire canon, though my research focuses only through Stravinsky. More
specifically, it is the woodwinds, bassoon especially, that provide timbral depth within scenes
and characterized soundscapes intrinsic to these folk songs. In many of the aforementioned
examples of folksong within orchestral works, the woodwinds carry the native melody. Most
notably is the opening to Le Sacre du Printemps; the entire introduction is woodwind soli
supporting a bassoon solo which works through the melody of “Tu, manu sesĕrĕle,” a
Lithuanian wedding song (Grymes). Tchaikovsky uses low brass and woodwinds during “The
Birch Tree,” in his fourth symphony, and Mussorgsky employs brass and woodwinds for
timbral changes throughout Pictures at an Exhibition. Rimsky-Korsakov, too, would employ
woodwinds in masterful ways throughout his compositional output. Scheherazade is only
one example of masterful use of woodwind solos to create timbral depth.
In his memoirs Rimsky-Korsakov wrote, “Balakirev said I have a gift for orchestration”
(Rimsky-Korsakov ‘42). Earlier, Tchaikovsky agreed with Balakirev, stating in a letter to him
that “Rimsky is so nice and good and so talented” (Zetlin). Rimsky-Korsakov had access to
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woodwind instruments and after being appointed Inspector of Navy Bands in the early 1870s
(Zetlin) (Seamen). In his memoirs, Rimsky-Korsakov writes “I came to know all the
uttermost tones of all instruments and the secret of producing some notes which everybody
avoids through ignorance” (Rimsky-Korsakov ‘42). He would put this knowledge to paper in
his textbook, Principles of Orchestration.
While Rimsky-Korsakov began this text in 1873, it was completed after his death by
Maximilian Steinberg. Principles of Orchestration was published in Russia in 1922, ten years
after its completion and was not translated to English until the 1960s. It has, however,
remained in circulation as a viable text on orchestration since. In chapter three,
Rimsky-Korsakov describes each woodwind instrument in detail. Rimsky-Korsakov asserts
his intimate knowledge of each instrument, saying “In each wind instrument I have defined
the scope of greatest expression, that is to say the range in which the instrument is best
qualified to achieve the various grades of tone,” (14). The composer communicates his
opinion of the bassoon in colorful language throughout this chapter. Both double reeds, the
bassoon and oboe, are often spoken of together. It seems that Rimsky-Korsakov, in doing
this, implies the lower half of the oboe range and the entire range of the bassoon: “The lower
register of the oboes and the bassoon is thick and rough, yet still nasal in quality; the very high
compass is shrill, hard and dry” (14). In speaking of the bassoon, specifically,
Rimsky-Korsakov states, “In the major [key], an atmosphere of senile mockery; a sad, ailing
quality in the minor [key]” (19) and “...it may be conceded that the mocking character of the
bassoon could easily and quite naturally assume a light-hearted aspect,” (19).
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The bassoon is described as sweet and plaintive with the ability to be brittle and
serious, as well. In his diagram that maps out the range of each instrument, Rimsky-Korsakov
describes the lowest range of the bassoon as “full, rough” the middle, “mournful, dull” the
high, “clear,” and the very high, “piercing” (17). I argue that Rimsky-Korsakov’s concept of the
bassoon sound was not his alone. He had been composing and orchestrating for nearly ten
years under the guidance of Balakirev with the support of Mussorgsky, Cui, and Borodin, and
the qualities described in Principles of Orchestration were already very much employed by
other members of the Five as well as Glinka and Tchaikovsky. Rimsky-Korsakov would pass
his orchestral prowess to the very composer that showcased woodwinds, especially the
bassoon, extraordinarily. “He [Stravinsky] studied with Rimsky-Korsakov, from whom he
learned technique in composition and orchestration... he bred in Stravinsky a classical
emphasis on craft, technique, and tradition” (Taruskin ‘09).
But why is this important to the bassoon as an instrument? Looking at the repertoire
asked from today’s bassoonists, it is clear that Russian composers expected the bassoon sound
to be very present within their works. As musicians prepare for auditions, solos or
particularly difficult passages are called upon during an audition. Bassoonists have more
Russian musical excerpts than any of the other woodwind instruments. Out of the twenty
most frequently asked excerpts, eight of the bassoon excerpts are Russian. This forty per cent
outweighs the thirty-two percent of flute excerpts, fifteen of oboe, and twenty per cent of
clarinet excerpts. The sheer number of bassoon solos within Russian works is a clue that the
instrument was beloved by these composers.
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My question is not “ in what ways is the bassoon utilized in Russian music” but “why
does the bassoon seem so important to Russians?” The answer to this question is, not
surprisingly, lies within their original scores. The extensive use of bassoon may lie in these
composers’ initial musical sketches, specifically Glinka’s A Life for the Tsar… In order to
more truly emulate a folk song setting, Glinka labeled his use of woodwind choir “dudki.”
(Grymes). Much like the fact that composers used the same folk songs, it turns out that this
instrumentation was used similarly as well. After Glinka Mussorgsky, Rimsky-Korsakov, and
even Stravinsky used this term in musical selections which feature the bassoon. Rooted in
tradition, “dudki” appears in nineteenth and twentieth century scores to evoke the sound of a
traditional folk instrument with an exotic past.
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Part 2: Armenian Influences in
Russian Music
The term dudki appears in multiple scores. Four examples of particular interest are
works by Glinka, Mussorgsky, Rimsky-Korsakov, and Stravinsky. In these pieces, the term
dudki accompanies excerpts which rely significantly on the bassoon. Glinka and
Rimsky-Korsakov use dudki in woodwind-choir passages with considerable emphasis on
bassoon, while Mussorgsky and Stravinsky utilize the bassoon as a solo instrument in their
dudki passages. I argue that the appearance of dudki within these bassoon-laden musical
excerpts creates a distinct correlation between the bassoon and dudki.
Glinka’s use of dudki in A Life for the Tsar set an example for Mussorgsky,
Rimsky-Korsakov, and later Stravinsky. We see dudki in Fair at Sorochintsy, one of
Mussorgsky’s unfinished works. Rimsky-Korsakov used dudki in The Snow Maiden, and his
pupil, Igor Stravinsky, would later employ the same term at the beginning of Le Sacre du
Printemps.
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What might dudki mean? The appearance of any term at the beginning of a piece of
music serves as an inkling as to what the composer intended for that section. The fact that
dudki appears within these sections, then, is evidence that Russian composers wrote these
segments of larger orchestral works with dudki in mind.
The Armenian duduk
Dudki is actually a Russian cognate for the plural of the Armenian word duduk. The
duduk is the national instrument of Armenia (Stokes) and is invaluable to the region’s folk
tradition. It has been associated with a plaintive and rustic quality (Sinclair) and is often
affiliated with shepherds. In fact, a Kurdish folktale embodies these qualities: (Sinclair).
“There was once a poor shepherd who watched the flocks of a very rich Kurd. He had thousands of sheep, goats, cattle, and horses, and could at any moment place a thousand retainers in the field to punish an enemy or on a marauding expedition. He had a beautiful daughter who fell in love with the poor shepherd and the sweet music of his belur, and he reciprocated her affection. She begged her father to allow them to marry. For a long time he was obdurate. At last to her incessant pleading, for all Kurds are devoted to their children, he said this: "If he can keep his flock of five hundred sheep from drinking at the spring for three days, you shall marry him." The shepherd watched them day and night. Whenever they approached the spring he played his sweetest airs on his belur. The sheep know this music is their call. They love it. So as he walked away from the spring each time playing, they always fol- lowed him. At the expiration of the three days, no sheep had touched the water of the spring. So he won his Kurdish beauty. They were married, and he and his descendants have always been noted as the best performers on the belur, the sweetest of instruments.”
Immediately after retelling the folktale, Sinclair says, “ Often the word duduk is used for
them [belur] in European Turkey and Northern Asia Minor,” meaning that the Kurdish word
belur is equivalent to the Armenian duduk. I argue that it is not at all far-fetched to believe
Stacy 30
that the Armenian duduk had the same cultural importance as the belur illustrated by the
Kurdish folk tale above. Furthermore, I believe the qualities exemplified here -sweet,
pastoral- are the very qualities called upon by Glinka and proceeding composers. This is
important to understanding how the duduk, and ultimately the bassoon, came to such
importance in Russian music. The period in which Mikhail Glinka first included dudki in his
scores is the same period in which Kurdish and Armenian cultures coexisted peacefully.
Armenian culture also existed in Russia, so it is plausible from historical as well as musical
perspectives that Glinka knew the timbre of the duduk and how it was used in folk music. He
then used the bassoon with other woodwinds to create the pastoral scenes intrinsic to the
duduk.
The Armenian duduk is a double reed instrument created from Apricot wood
(Stokes). Its timbre is rather mellow, nasal, and plaintive, which I argue is a direct result of the
material from which is instrument is made. “The acoustical properties of wood, such as the
volume, quality, and color of the sound … are determined by the mechanical properties of the
material from which they are made because the sound is produced by vibrations of the
material itself” (Wegst). Apricot wood’s relatively low density of 0.67g/cc (EOL) is most
similar to that of maple, from which bassoons are made. This density is 0.546g/cc (Physical
Properties. Web.)
The duduk resembles but does not sound like the oboe. This is another consequence
of wood density. “[D]enser tropical species, [such as] African blackwood or grenadilla
(Dalbergia melanoxylon), have been favored for oboe” (Wegst). Grenadilla has a density of
1.2-1.25g/cc (Physical Properties. Web), making it nearly twice as dense as maple. It makes
Stacy 31
sense, then, that the oboe has a higher, more piercing quality than the bassoon. We can also
infer that the bassoon is more timbrally related to the duduk because of its lower density.
Wegst asserts that “we can illustrate the design requirements for these instruments and
analyze why certain species are especially suited for particular sound applications and
therefore traditionally chosen by musical instrument makers,” which is not at all unlike
Rimsky-Korsakov’s claim “[t]he choice of instruments for characteristic and expressive
melody is based on their distinctive qualities,” (Rimsky-Korsakov ‘42).
“Dudki” in Russian Orchestral Scores
Glinka was the first to use the bassoon to evoke the duduk in A Life for the Tsar and
does so by employing the sweet, nasal timbre of the modern bassoon within a woodwind
choir. However, A Life for Tsar employs two bassoons to balance the register and darken the
timbres of the flute, oboe, and clarinet within the excerpt. Rimsky-Korsakov’s opera The
Snow Maiden: includes a stage band of “shepherds’ horns” in act IV. These onstage
instruments are all woodwinds, and primarily double reeds. Perhaps the most explicit
examples of the bassoon imitating the duduk, are the excerpts within The Fair at Sorochintsy
and Le Sacre du Printemps. Both dudki passages rely on only solo bassoon. “Dumka Parobka”
is an aria within the first act sung by a peasant boy regarding his nuptial plans. Fittingly, the
folk tune appropriated by Mussorgsky for this purpose is none other than “Tu, manu
sesĕrĕle,” the wedding song which begins Le Sacre du Printemps. Stravinsky, it appears, stole
the dudki-bassoon solo from Fair at Sorochintsy and used it in for the opening bassoon solo
of the The Rite of Spring.
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Stravinsky’s letters to the ballet’s costume designer, Nikolai Roerich excitedly say that
the Introduction was written for dudki (Grymes). The designer, then, drew a boy playing a
duduk, which was kept with Stravinsky’s musical sketches (Grymes). In 1912, Stravinsky
wrote to Russia’s Musical Gazette that the opening was indeed supposed to evoke dudki
(Grymes).
Evoking the Duduk through the Bassoon
Each of the aforementioned pieces relies heavily on the bassoon both as a solo
instrument and a member of woodwind choir to represent the duduk. These passages also
happen to be rooted in folk-song. Mussorgsky’s use of bassoon in The Fair at Sorochintsy is
not only similar in timbral content to the duduk, but in folk content as well. Dumka Parobka,
the aria in which the bassoon accompanies the vocalist, surrounds conflict regarding a
wedding. The emotional basis behind said excerpt is that of struggle, yearning, rusticism. I
argue that Mussorgsky and Stravinsky relied on the bassoon’s timbral abilities in its higher
register to create the sound of the duduk within their orchestral settings.
The traditional instrument has strong associations with pastoral settings and
shepherds. “[S]imilar shepherd music and instruments are known in northern European
territories from the Vistula River in the west to the upper Volga in the east, and from the
polar circle to the Pripet River in the south” (Stokes), so it is logical that the “duduk, a highly
popular folk instrument amongst shepherds and peasants” (Nercessian) would find itself in
orchestral works in such regions. The plaintiveness of the bassoon, as described by
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Rimsky-Korsakov, is the only timbre that truly evokes that of the traditional duduk.
Verdansky, perhaps romantically, describes hearing her native home’s music and recalls a
“plaintive Russian song to see immediately the black earth, the wide, fields, the rising sun and
the green grass blown by the morning wind,” This plaintive sound calls for long phrases and
seemingly unrefined, nasal sound qualities, which directly reflects that of the bassoon. It
seems plausible- probable, even- that Russian composers knew the duduk intimately, and
historical context supports my supposition that these composers likely interacted with the
instrument.
Armenia in the 18th and 19th Centuries
“The connection between Russia and the Armenian people dates from the time of
Peter the Great, although even before his reign a certain number of Armenians had found
their way into Russia” (Fire and Sword).
The second Russian-Iranian war ended with the signing of the Treaty of
Turkmenchay (1828). the end of the Russian-Iranian war led to Russia’s rule of Armenia,
although the Armenian people were encouraged to celebrate and protect their culture. Russia
had gained control over modern-day eastern Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Armenia (Fisher), and
this treaty “contributed to the unification of the Armenian people within the Russian
Empire,” which would impact Russian culture, I argue, significantly. “They [Armenians] were
permitted, within certain limits, to develop their national life; many became wealthy and
many rose to high positions in the military and civic service of the state” (Fisher). The
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Armenian people valued music greatly (Stokes) and brought their folk traditions into Russia
when they emigrated.
The idea of Armenian folk music used by Russian composers is supported by none
other than Balakirev. Balakirev’s use of a Tartar folk-melody in his middle movement of
Islamey is both an example of the idiomatic “sharp-five-over-tonic” in many Russian pieces,
as well as direct explanation of its origin. In fact, Balakirev is said to have heard this very
melody sung by an Armenian folk-singer in 1869 (Garden ‘80). Garden’s recount supports
two of my own arguments: the first being that Armenian people, their culture, and music
were present in Russia and the second being that these things had direct influence on the
Russian composers in question. Truman also asserts that Tartar and Turkish music has
profound influence on Russian music in his article An Aspect of Stravinsky’s Russianism:
Ritual. Ultimately, the sheer fact that a Slavic cognate exists for an Armenian instrument
supports the notion that this instrument was present in the Slavic soundscape of the
nineteenth and twentieth century compositions. It is truly possible that Russian composers
could have encountered an Armenian instrument such as the duduk.
Stacy 35
Conclusion
Scholars love to nail down specific formulas, but the overall music system is
indeterminate, by its very nature (Slobin). Surely there are a multitude of factors that went
into these composers’ instrumentation choices, but I argue that the Armenian presence in
Russia, having already been established, influenced the Russian folk music with which
Glinka, Balakirev and the Five, Tchaikovsky, and Stravinsky were familiar. The appearance of
dudki in Russian scores would not have happened had Armenians not migrated into Russia;
the Russian use of bassoon in these passages evokes the tradition and timbre of the Armenian
dudki. Russians appropriated this timbre in their own folk music (Sinclair), which orchestral
composers (beginning with Glinka) then simulated with modern instrumentation- namely,
the bassoon.
Stacy 36
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